


Safe Tonight

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Collars, Dom/sub, F/M, Near Death Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like any love story she's ever known but it's what they need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the third round of Kink Bingo at DW. Prompt: collars.

It's not like this every night, but some.

He comes to her quarters, broad and proud in his gold-colored uniform, not one of his silky black hairs out of place. If they've agreed upon it, she nods to him once the door slides shut and he moves across the room to stand before her.

"Knees," she orders softly, and he sinks down, graceful. He clasps his hands behind his back and bends low to kiss the fine bones of her ankles.

They're both tired, always so tired, but there is time for this.

She produces the collar, solid and silver with a single ring attached for restraints, should she choose to use them. She rarely does. He holds his head high as she fits the collar around his neck and gently taps in the code that fuses its two ends together. The collar clasps shut with a delicate sound that never fails to render his eyes glassy, if only for a moment. It brings him to the place he belongs, where she wants him.

"Clothes," she whispers.

When she's feeling generous, she remains in her uniform so he may disrobe her. Tonight, she's already undressed, so he merely pulls off his own layers, until he's standing nude before her. To her eyes, his skin appears gold-dusted. She clasps his face with two hands and ushers him down for a kiss.

She sits on the edge of the bed and he takes his place between her splayed thighs. He takes his time, as drawing the pleasure out is something that excites them both. When he finally arrives at her entrance, his tongue is dexterous and hot, skating along her folds. He licks her open slowly, lovingly, and fastens his lips to her clit until she shakes. Her hand finds the back of his head and she cradles him gently.

"Yes, _yes_ ," she moans. He is hers and she is so lucky. She bunches his hair between her fingers when he makes her come.

He climbs into her lap when she signals for it, presses his face to her cheekbone as she strokes him. She takes her time and teases him, slow pulls of her hand that make his solid muscles quiver all over. He doesn't make a sound beyond his hot huffs of breath against her skin, though he comes close to a whimper when she slides a fingertip along the edge of the collar.

She hooks a finger in the collar's ring and slots their mouths together. Her hand twists along the sensitive ridge of his cock, her index fingernail flicking against the slit. He grips her arms and comes with her tongue in his mouth.

They kiss until she guides him away. He curls on his side by the foot of the bed. She quotes a number: the total hours he must wait before he can join her under the covers. She bends at the knees to stroke his hair. "Two," she whispers. She's never made him stay on the floor all night. They both know she never will.

She's halfway between sleep and dream two hours later when he climbs into bed with her. His arms wrap around her middle and she unconsciously pulls his hand against her cheek. The cold metal of the collar ring grazes her nape and makes her shiver. He whispers soothing, romantic things in her ear that she never remembers come morning.

It's not a love story, at least not the kind she's been a part of before. But she still calls it love. The thought of each night with him tides her over when the days are long and unrelenting.

On the bridge, they hardly exchange words. And when there is danger, he always volunteers, as he has from day one: her Hikaru, his heart outlined with a fierce sense of duty and quiet strength. He throws himself into every abyss, confident he can climb his way out. When he leaves for away missions, no matter how minor, Nyota keeps his heart monitor open in a small window on her console, where no one can see. She does her job of translating languages from other worlds, syllables with faraway origins rolling from her lips like rounded pearls. Her eyes remain steady on his vitals.

She can't collar him here.

The day his heart flattens into a red line, she stops breathing. Everything slows around her. She hears shouting but it's white noise. She swivels in her chair and reaches instinctively, as if she can grab him out of thin air. The captain looks at her in surprise, and for one unguarded moment before he starts barking orders, she can see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes.

Seventeen sickening minutes later and Hikaru's life signs return. Someone comms and explains the malfunction that made everyone think he was dead, reassures them that he's injured but fine. She fights the urge to crawl under her console and sob.

When things settle and the away team returns, battered but upright, she makes up a reason for going to Sickbay. He rests on a bed there, separated from her by machines and medical personnel. She glances at him, long enough to see the cuts and bruises yet to be healed, the imprint of someone else's fingers on the vulnerable, bare slope of his neck. Her hands tremble at her sides.

He returns her gaze and she straightens her posture, walks away.

Hours later, he arrives at her quarters. His injuries are mostly healed but the memory of fingerprints and an unwavering red line still burns in her memory, claws at the lining of her stomach.

"Nyota," he says, reaching for her. "I—"

She steps away from him. "Knees," she commands.

"We didn't say—"

" _Knees_ ," she repeats, louder.

The collar is clenched in her fist. He sees it and obeys, kneeling before her. She fastens it around his neck without any of her usual gentility or grace. She doesn't care if it catches on his skin. His eyes are wide, his mouth pressed into a firm line. The cartilage of his throat bobs against the smooth silver surface.

"Nyota," he says again, softer now. She slaps him hard across his face and he hisses. The skin of his cheek is newly regenerated; it must hurt.

"Selfish, Hikaru." Her voice sounds fragile. She's not on duty anymore; she can cry if she wants to. "It's like...you forget me sometimes."

"I could never forget," he says. He runs his hands over her sides, kisses beneath her navel. "Even when I was..." His breath is unsteady. He takes her hand in his and lays it on the collar, guides her index finger through the ring. He presses his forehead to the delicate curve of her hipbone. "All I could think was...all I thought of—"

"Stop it." She tugs on his collar with one hand, wipes her wet eyes with the back of the other. The time has already passed for tears. "You're safe now. You're right where you belong. Do you understand?"

He curls his fingers in the fabric of her uniform skirt. "Say it. Please."

"You belong to me."

They fall back on the bed together and it's frantic between them in a way it never is. All the same, it feels like slow-motion. She pulls him close, her legs viselike around his body. Her finger never strays from the ring on his collar. He slides inside her with a moan, solid warmth melting her to nothing, and god, she needs him, needs _this_. Her fingernails scratch patterns across his back that he won't go to Sickbay to erase. Their hips work together in a rhythm as strong and assured as his heartbeat before it suddenly went away. He groans as she pulls him down forcefully and bites at his mouth, then licks the sting away. And when she feels his cock pulse inside her, divine heat rushing through her, she arches and allows herself to follow his lead.

"How many?" he asks minutes later. She's warm in his embrace, her head still buzzing. Her legs are unwilling to let him go. She mouths gently at his shoulder.

"Zero," she whispers.

On a night like this, Hikaru's soft breaths steady against her ear and her hand splayed over warm skin and cool metal, Nyota can concede that it's a love story. But not every love story needs to be told. In her bed, in the darkness, she keeps this one safe.


End file.
